


The Missing Detective

by The_Grim_Reaper_Of_UA



Series: Sherlock Holmes: A Study In Supernatural [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Mystery, Supernatural - Freeform, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28215213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Grim_Reaper_Of_UA/pseuds/The_Grim_Reaper_Of_UA
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only unofficial consulting detective has been reported to be missing by his best friend, Dr. John Watson. No one knows where the detective has gone. His possessions are as it is.Upset by his best friend's disappearance, Dr. Watson takes up the case himself. With all that Holmes has taught him and some of his own skills and knowledge, he sets out on a quest to find him.Meanwhile strange incidents occur throughout London, people are found dead with two tiny holes in their necks.The police are at a dead end and as there seems to be no sign of the detective, they are forced to call upon Dr. Watson, who agrees to it, for he believes that there is a connection between these happenings and his most intimate acquaintance.Will Watson succeed?Why is Holmes missing?Is it only "just a normal case" or does it have more than what it shows?Find out in this story........Disclaimer: Technically Sherlock Holmes is more or less public domain, but for formalities, the characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the plot.(this has been posted on Wattpad under the username of TRAVALERRAY as well)
Relationships: John Watson & Lestrade, No Romantic Relationships - Relationship, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Tobias Gregson & Lestrade
Series: Sherlock Holmes: A Study In Supernatural [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066904
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

_"Sherlock Holmes: MISSING_

_In an act of concern for his best friend, Dr. John Watson filed a paper stating that his flatmate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes had been reported to be missing for a fortnight. The detective is famous for his irregular disappearances but never before has he been missing for so long. Watson is worried sick over his friend and is missing for further comments due to having fainted while being interrogated. Anyone who has seen him is free to contact us at this number."_

A figure slid the newspaper into the pockets of his overcoat. His hat was drawn over his face, hiding it from the sun and people's eyes.

He bit his lip as he murmured.

"I am so sorry, my dear Watson."


	2. THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE VIOLIN

The streets of London were washed by the rain that had happened a few minutes ago. It was night. The pale crescent moon hung in the sky, partly obscured by the clouds that were yet to dissipate. It was a pleasant site to watch. The streets were more or less deserted at this hour.

A distant ringing of a clock revealed that it was midnight. Everyone was peacefully asleep, their curtains drawn, without a care in the world. Everyone without a care in the world that is. A candle burnt at the table in 221B Baker Street, in the rooms of Dr. John Hamish Watson. Papers were strewn across the room and the half drunk cup of tea stood as a paperweight on a stack of newspapers. The date on the topmost one was stated to be 25th January, 1895. A blond haired man was working hard, the pen in his hands rapidly writing down his deductions. Granted, he was nothing like his friend, not even a little bit, but he wasn't an idiot either. Tired blue eyes stared at the stack of papers that had to be read. A groan escaped his lips as he sighed and leaned back in his chair, putting a hand over his eyes.

"Oh God Holmes, what did you get yourself into again?"

A picture of said person stared at him through the newspaper, grey eyes still managing to give one that feeling that they were being watched. Watson felt a warmth in his heart looking at it, which was immediately replaced by a terrible ache because the person wasn't there anymore, atleast not where he could see him. He missed the sudden soft notes of the violin at night, the flush upon his face when he solved the case, the way he could fascinate people with his perfect deductions, the-

Watson jerked up from his chair, the tea cup falling down and breaking, tea soaking the yellowed pages. Mrs. Hudson would probably be angry when she saw this but now wasn't the time to think that. He had seen a shadow, he was sure of it. A single tall shadow move across the curtains. His breathing grew shallow as he realized that someone was in the room. His hands moved to his revolver, ready to shoot if necessary. He stood tense in the middle of the room, not daring to call out immediately due to the fear of giving up his position.

A soft rustling attracted his attention. It came from Holmes's room. Watson's breath hitched in his chest. No, not THAT room. It wasn't like there was a bomb that would go off or anything, but the thought of any stranger violating his flatmate's possessions in his absence made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

He crept up to the door, trying to not make any sound. There was no sound in the room anymore. Closing his eyes and uttering a prayer to God, he slowly opened it, prepared for the worst.

He stood in shock.

There was no one in the room. His brow furrowed in confusion, he looked around, looking for any signs of escape. There was none. Not a single trace to identify that someone had been here. Only a thin mist hung inside the room, which was to be expected owing to the cold weather.

Looking at the room brought back a lot of memories. He shook his head and went to check if anything had been taken. Nothing had been taken. He frowned until his eyes landed on the open violin case.

Holmes's beloved violin.

It was there no more.

His eyes widened in horror, as he looked about, trying to find the musical instrument, the wooden object which the detective often took to calming himself in order to think logically.

It was an inseparable part of the flat, it had always been there. Even during Holmes's long absence following Moriarty's demise, it hadn't been moved. It had been kept the same as ever.

He sought it in vain.

Finally he sat down on his bed, head in his hands, a strange feeling in his heart.

He didn't know what to think.

"Think Watson, think, you have to think," he muttered to himself.

Whoever had entered the room, had done so without a trace except for the shadow which he saw earlier and the missing violin. He had left without a trace as well, no footprints, as was to be expected from having walked through the muddy roads after the rain.

Then what?

Frustrated and annoyed, he looked up at the ceiling.

There had to be a connection, there had to be an answer.

Because all questions had answers.

Holmes used to say, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth."

But what was the impossible here? It was impossible to enter and exit the room without a trace like in this case. But, it had still been done. How????

He pulled at his hair, frustrated.

What the hell had just happened?

The mist seemed to get thicker in front of him and then dissipate totally. He fancied he saw something in it, but ruled it out. There was absolutely no way he could have seen anything in the mist.

"Oh God Holmes, where on earth are you?"


	3. WHAT DIMITRIE VATLER HAD TO SAY

12TH January, 1895

Dr. Watson had returned from his trip to the country. He had returned to a house without the presence of Holmes. Thinking that Holmes was out for a case, he made himself at home and proceeded to wait for his flatmate. The morning rolled by with no sign of the detective. He had enquired about him to Mrs. Hudson, who claimed that he was out of London for a case. Feeling slightly disheartened, he had taken a seat on the couch and immersed himself in a newspaper. By afternoon, he had fallen into a light doze, so he was startled when the doorbell rang. Stifling a yawn, he went to the door where Mrs. Hudson was standing with a card in her hand. He frowned and took it.

On the card, it was written, "Mister Thomas Vatler, Vicar from Sussex."

He wondered whether he was some client of Holmes, who had come here, not informed of the man's absence. He decided to admit the man, letting the curiousity take over.

He nodded at Mrs. Hudson, and she went to fetch Mr. Vatler.

"I assume that you are the friend of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Hamish Watson?"

These were the first words spoken by the visitor. He was wearing a fur coat over his expensive clothing, a hat perched atop his head of black hair, brows taut, not showing any negative emotion, hands held loosely at his sides, no signs of offense there either. His ice blue eyes scanned Watson.

"Yes, I would be, might I take the liberty to enquire how you came to know of my name?"

The vicar shook had an amused look on his face.

"Mr. Holmes talked highly of you when asked."

Watson looked startled. Holmes had talked highly of him? During a case?

"You seem surprised," Mr. Vatler noted.

Watson blinked and looked at him.

Vatler leant against the wall, observing the man of the shorter stature in front of him.

"Well, nevertheless, Mr. Holmes had mentioned that if anything were to happen to him, the first person who should be informed is you."

He paused at those words, making Watson's heart thunder madly in his chest. What did he mean by, "If something happened to him"? What had happened to Holmes? He looked back to the emotionless face of the vicar.

"And you were someone we could trust as much as him," Vatler continued, hovering over him like an eagle, making the shorter man distinctly uncomfortable.

"Well, I am glad to know about his trust in me. I would rather you get straight to the point to deal with the matter at hand quickly and efficiently," Watson finally said, irritably, tired of the man's drama.

Vatler smiled and swept his hat off his head off in one swift move sat down on the armchair opposite to Watson. He smiled, which made the hair at the back of Watson's neck stand up. There was something about his very presence that made one uneasy and keep up his guard.

Vatler seemed unperturbed by the other's discomfort. He leant forwards in his armchair, chin on his steepled fingers. Watson sunk down on the one beside himself and clasped his hands in his lap, trying to maintain a steady eye contact with the man.

"So, as you said, my dear doctor, I will indeed get to the point," he said with a lazy smile before his eyes turned serious, "But before that, you might want to know the curtains. We don't want any nosy busybodies here."

Watson gave him a look before getting up to close the curtains. He paused before the window, eyes scanning the street out of habit. It was strangely deserted. He sucked in a breath before pulling the curtains over the window, feeling Vatler's eyes on him.

He turned around, but did not move from his spot.

"So, gentleman, would you mind narrating the circumstances under which you contacted Holmes for aid?"

Vatler looked at him for a long time before leaning slightly back, lean calloused fingers striking a soft rhythm to keep himself steady as he narrated a most curious tale.

_"It was December when the incidents began, the sudden disappearances and the dense fog. First it was the chickens, so we assumed it to be some common thief. It was very cold, and we were well off enough to manage without a few chickens._

_So we let those incidents pass, hoping that the person who was stealing them was using them for good, that is, his survival. But then one night, the entire house was woken up by a scream from the cook. We ran there, with sticks to beat up whoever was the cause of her fright. But we found no one. Only the cook had fainted. Some of the servants were ordered to take her back to her room, while I asked a few more to accompany me for an inspection of the place._

_We went there, some carrying lanterns, and other bearing sticks. There was nothing out of the ordinary there so we decided to head back, but one of the men came running back, his eyes wide with horror. He had been struck speechless by what he had seen. Amazed by his severe reaction, we followed him to where he lead us. It was behind a cowshed._

_A few drops of blood showed us the site of the mishap. We stared at the site in horror."_

Here he paused to wipe his face and Watson took that time to carefully observe him and absorb the information. The man was a bit younger than him, he would put him in his late thirties, and he looked affected at the memory of whatever had chanced.

_"A cow was found dead on the floor of the cowshed, looking incredibly pale. Two bloody pricks on the neck was the only sign of injury found on the dead animal. Her eyes stared at nothing in terror, possibly at the intruder who had been the cause of her death._

_The person in charge of the cowshed was called. He was devastated. It had been his favourite. He, however, claimed no responsibility for the death. The cook had woken up and we questioned her. She claimed to bear no memory of the incident, only a sense of absolute terror. Since it was only a cow, it was futile to report anything to the police. They wouldn't believe it and there was no way to prove that it had been murdered. They would just pass it off._

_This continued for the entire month. Cows, horses, goats etc etc, found dead randomly. A phenomenon I observed to be common in all of these was the thick mist that appeared during the estimated time of murder. We needed to do something. The livestock dropping dead wasn't a very profitable thing._

_We called a doctor to examine the animals for any potential signs of illnesses that could have caused this. A few days later, the cook was found dead with two holes in her neck, her body deprived of blood. I remember it as fresh as yesterday. That had happened on the second of January. The police were called but they couldn't fanthom a reason for this._

_Deaths like this kept occuring throughout the town and the police had met a dead end. The murders occured every alternate day. The people, who were killed were random, with absolutely no visible connection between them. I was familiar with the name of Sherlock Holmes, from reading his exploits in your words. So, when the police suggested his name, I didn't question it._

_He arrived on the tenth. A very calculative and logical man, at par with your description of him. He had noticed that something was severely off and had asked to be left alone in the fields that day. We complied with his request. Before leaving he had given us a note that should be given to you if something went amiss. That was concerning and upon being informed of that, he had merely shrugged and shaken off all offers of taking someone with him._

_That was the last that we ever saw of him, a lantern in his hand, heading into the perilous night. Morning came with no sign of him. Worried, I sent my men to search for him. Secretly, I had been afraid that they would return with his dead body. But they returned empty handed. I was shocked. That meant that he was still alive, hopefully._

_However, he never turned up, the entire day went without him showing up. His belongings were sparse but they hadn't been stolen. We still keep the hope that the man might be alive. The deaths grew fewer and finally stopped after his disappearance."_

The colour had drained from Watson's face, the more he heard the vicar's story, the more shocked he grew. His chest felt empty and flashes of the time after Holmes's "death" clouded his vision. Panic and horror rose in him with a crushing feeling.

"How can you be so sure that he is alive without a trace? He might have DIED!!!!!!"

The last word was shrill and he straightened up, hands curling into fists as the odd pain of the Jezail bullet wound flared up.

Vatler did not flinch but his face adopted a countenance of immense sorrow and guilt.

"I am truly sorry for the fate of your friend," he stated, bowing his head, "But I have a letter to give to you as well."

He walked up to a trembling Watson and handed the letter over to him.

He took it with shaking hands.

On it, was written,

_"My dear Watson,_

_If you are reading this letter, then that means that something has happened to me. I would provide details, but I must confess that I am unaware of a lot of things myself. As I write this note to you, I feel as if I am heading to my eventual doom._

_The message that I wish to impart is that, whatever happens, do not panic and do something that you are likely to regret. I know for a fact that you won't and thus I can be at ease._

I _end this note as I can hear the footsteps of the servant approaching to call me."_

_Yours Truly,_

_Sherlock Holmes."_


	4. THE LAURISTON GARDENS MURDER

26th January, 1865

Having gotten over the happenings of the night, Watson had felt drowsy enough to fall asleep on Holmes's bed. The mist in the room had thickened yet again, and a silhoutte fell on the sleeping doctor, before dissipating again. A soft, yet familiar tune lulled him to a much needed rest after not having slept for the past three days. The tired man's sleep was peaceful and the soft tune could be heard throughout the night and stopped sometime before dawn.

It was a new day. The clouds hadn't dissipated yet and the sun's rays were dim. It was dreary enough to match what was going to take place.

Ding! Dong!

Watson scrambled out of bed at the sudden sound of the doorbell. His hair was tousled and his entire countenance showed that he hadn't had his fair share of sleep. Mrs. Hudson brought the visitor's card upstairs.

It was Inspector Lestrade.

He nodded at her and she disappeared down the stairs to bring him up. He wondered what had brought Lestrade this early to this place. Perhaps he had found a new clue, a new lead. He looked hopefully at the man when he came up, only to be disappointed by his despondent shake of head.

"Doctor, we require your help," the little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow began, "We have a case similar to what Mr. Holmes had chanced upon in Sussex."

Watson stood up, all traces of sleep leaving his face.

"Where?" He asked, putting on his hat. He had fallen asleep in his formal attire, so he did not require to change.

"Lauriston Gardens," The man informed, "107 Lauriston Gardens."

He nodded at Lestrade, prompting him to go first.

When Lestrde was gone, he called Mrs. Hudson and informed her that he would be gone.

"Come back safely, Doctor," she said as she watched him leave.

Watson gave her a smile and closed the door after him, looking at the foggy London streets.

Unknown to him, dark figures observed him from the shadows, deducing him.

Watson hurried into a cab, unaware of any suspicious activity around him. The mist was thickening around him gradually and once or twice he felt a tinge of bloodlust but it vanished the moment he tried to pay any attention to it. He wrapped his coat and scarf around himself tighter, trying to ignore it. The feeling seemed to intensify. He shook himself, telling himself that he was imagining things and that the cab had suddenly become hot for some reason and the sweat dripping down his forehead wasn't a product of fear.

_Fear is wisdom in the face of danger._

He shook himself, again. There was no danger here, he was just being silly. The mist thickened in front of him. He could see thin tendrils of black if he focused hard enough. He was totally paralyzed in his seat, eyes wide and fearful. This was unlike anything he had encountered before.

"Dr. Watson, we have reached. Would you like me to wait for you?"

He was startled out of his thoughts by the cab-driver's voice. The mist had become thinner. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he said, "No, thanks."

"Then that would be 45 cents."

He paid the price and exited the cab, mist and a sick feeling of blood enveloping him, which was to be expected from a site of murder. The snow crunched under his boots as he beheld the building in front of it, immediately recognizing it to be the one from his first case with Holmes. Nostalgia hit him like a train and he blinked away the sudden moisture building in his eyes. He made his way inside, where the officers were there to receive him and showed him the body.

He nearly fainted at how awful it looked. Its eyes were lifeless, and its body looked visibly deformed, ridiculously pale, a few bones looked broken even from a distance and the mouth was open in silent terror as it watched the murderer before death. Its skin was warped and torn in some places, but there was barely any blood present. Watson thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them warm and hide how they trembled at the gruesome site before him. It hadn't been touched, preserved for his arrival.

He went towards it and knelt down beside it, taking into note its shriveled form which made him certain that the body had been drained of all blood. There wasn't any visible wounds on the body that he could see, as his eyes ran a superficial scan over its exposed parts. There was no blood pooling around it, no such traces of it, in fact. His gaze landed on the exposed neck, where there were two minuscule puncture marks on it, too superficial to count as grave. The cloth at the neck was slightly torn, as if someone or something had grabbed her to inflict the marks.

A thin line of blood was visible on the injury, and he tried concentrating harder on that spot, causing the rest of the room to go slightly blurred. He thought that he saw small marks, which he perceived to be teeth marks and involuntary shuddered, chasing the thought away. Rigor mortis had set in and he estimated the time of death to have been around ten hours ago, sometime around midnight. That wasn't that helpful as he imagined what could have caused her death.

He assumed it to be a machine of some sort, something that sucked all the blood away from the body. That would explain the evidence of struggling as well, if she had been forced into this procedure. He looked around for any signs of such a machine, but realized that the police had messed up the scene thoroughly enough to leave no such signs of it. He licked his dry lips and got up, a funny feeling in his stomach which he recognized as dread and nervousness.

Lestrade was leaning on the wall and looking at him with ill-disguised hope. He wasn't worthy of that look. His abilities of perception was no where near one-hundredth of his flatemate's. Their intimate acquaintance had certainly taught Watson a lot of things, but he was no detective. He went up to the officer and said,

s"I am afraid that I see no clues. The weapon of murder hasn't been found or identified, and it isn't anything that has ever been seen before."

"Except in Sussex," Lestrade mumbled.

"Except in Sussex," Watson agreed, "The nature of this case is so convoluted that it feels near impossible to tell one thread apart from each other. Have you unearthed any reasons for the victim to be targeted thus?"

Lestrade seemed to deflate, even as he shook his head wearily. The man had his sympathies, Watson mused in his head. The stress was completely on him, for he was on his own without the aid of the world's only unofficial consulting detective.

"Her name is Mellisa Decruise. Her records show her to be aged twenty five. She worked as a journalist, lived alone, on the 110 in fact, pretty close by. She was punctual in her work. Pretty well liked by her coworkers from what we have surmised. Her untimely demise has come as a shock to those who knew her."

"She worked as a journalist, you say? She could have potentially alienated someone via her writing causing them to exact revenge in such a fashion," Watson said the first and most obvious thing that came to his mind.

Lestrade gave him a wry smile.

"That's the thing doctor, she was new in her field, three months fresh and had written no offending or incriminating columns that would lead to this."

"Family? Jealous relatives?"

"None who can be suspected. She doesn't have any relatives, them being dead. Her parents died a month ago, so in terms of speaking, she has no family. Her coworkers have taken the responsibility to arrange her funeral."

Watson went silent. Nothing was making sense to him. The girl was isolated and any question he asked seemed to turn up a dead end. Lestrade continued, his voice slightly softer,

"The police are at their wit's end. The absence of Mr. Holmes is keenly felt."

"Indeed," Watson said, suddenly feeling exhausted, "I'll try my best. Good day to you, Inspector."

Lestrade nodded and stood up straighter, "I have faith in your words. Good day to you too, doctor."

Watson turned and went down the path, ignoring the slight indignation he felt at Lestrade's words.

_The man had faith in his words. However his tone belied his lack of faith in his abilities._

A thin line of mist seemed to find its way deliberately inside the house, but he paid it no heed. He had better things to do other than concentrate on mist.

"By the way, Doctor, how are things there?"

He turned back at Lestrade's enquiry. The man really looked tired. Crime had snapped up in the city and it was showing on his face.

"Well, his violin was stolen," he answered, as if talking of the weather.

The man's eyes widened and then he slumped against the wall, abandoning all pretense of trying to act awake.

"Now, crime has even reached the consulting detective's place. Next thing I know, police officers are being kidnapped."

Watson gave a bitter laugh and turned on his heel and entered the cab. The mist was still unreasonably thick, but he didn't explicitly notice it.


	5. DR. LANDSTEINER

Watson shrugged off his coat and had his breakfast. It was nearing ten in the morning and the fog had cleared slightly. His melancholic mood didn't improve in the slightest as he resigned himself to moodily reading newspapers, scrounging for scrapes of information, possible leads, anything at all.

This made him ask himself, "What would have Holmes done in this case?"

He stared at the wallpaper in front of him, imagining the gaunt man walking to and fro, his violin tucked under his chin, a faint smell of tobacco surrounding him, and a very Holmes-ish look on his face, indicating that he was thinking. It felt so real and tangible that he wouldn't be surprised if the man happened to appear out of thin air. The delusion lasted for a single moment before the sensation of a despairing loneliness set in. He got up, shaking his head, heading to his flatement's room to conduct the millionth detour, as if a new clue would unveil itself before his eyes this time, a clue he had missed the last times.

At the back of his mind he knew that it was wistful thinking, yet sure enough, he stood in the room, door closed behind him. His eyes immediately went to the empty violin case whose cover was still lying on the bed. And that was when he did a double take.

The cover had been replaced and the case was resting on the bed. His first thought was that it had been Mrs. Hudson's doing which he immediately banished for she would never ever step in this room or his own without his consent. However, there it was, the case lying innocently on the bed as if it had walked there by itself. He imagined the expression on Holmes's face if he had said that. It just left him with a sense of aching loss in its wake, however.

His fingers brushed it, as if revering some ancient relic. He opened it, only to be greeted by another shock. The case wasn't empty. The violin lay there, as if it had never disappeared. It was as if the events of last night had never happened. He might as well have been dreaming. He shook his head, he was pretty sure that they had occurred. He took the instrument out of the case, taking it upon himself to examine it entirely and look for signs of tampering or something of the like. He wasn't Holmes, and felt the fact heavily after turning it over and over for the better part of an hour and discovering absolutely nothing.

Disappointed, he put it back in its case, lying on his back in the perpetually messy bed. The sheets were lying askew and while it had been made, Holmes had been in a hurry when he had left and Watson hadn't been there either. Now it was collecting dust like an old forgotten relic. Watson felt like he was residing in a tomb, breathing dead air. The thought startled him off said bed, making him glare at this brain in dismay.

_Where there is no imagination, there is no horror._

Shaking his head, he headed towards the living room, deciding to do some semblance of work there, heedless of the sudden heavy mist in the room he left behind. Little details like that are easily and always missed.

_I don't see more than you Watson, I simply observe more._

It was late into the evening that a harried Tobias Gregson called. Watson jumped up, as he always did, even if his spark of hope was slowly fading. Doubt and time ate away at it, having reduced it to a few small embers, which were gradually but surely about to flicker out any day.

"Another murder," the man gasped out, "Same type as that of Sussex and Lauriston."

Watson felt sick. This kind of murder was terrifying, especially considering that the cause was "Extreme Blood Loss" to the point where blood in the body was non-existent. No visible marks were found, except for two small puncture marks at the neck. He really wasn't that eager to find out which organization required and for what.

The moment he got into his coat that a very white looking Lestrade burst into the room, trembling all over. He seemed to not have noticed his long-time rival yet, he was looking too horrified to take proper note of his surroundings at the moment.

"Dr. Watson," the rat-faced man squeaked, "The corpse has disappeared."

He nearly tripped over his coat. Gregson was looking at him in a look of utter incredulity, which bordered on amused.

"Lestrade, you are spending too much time awake, get some sleep," he said with the straightest face that he could muster, but he failed, having to turn away to stifle a laugh.

Lestrade wasn't even listening. He looked like he had seen a ghost and it was all he could do to not drag Watson by the collar to the morgue.

"I hadn't believed it at first either," he began, never once losing the terrified look in his eyes, "But then I saw it for myself. The corpse wasn't on the autopsy table where it had been kept for further examination. It wasn't anywhere in the morgue, nor any imaginable place in the entire station. I swear, doctor, I remember leaving it right there, crystal clear, what could have happened—."

He was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Gregson looked at Lestrade, amusement vanishing and being replaced by the beginnings of a worried frown.

"Lestrade, here, Lestrade," Watson began, putting his hand gently on the man's shoulders, "Breathe."

He shakily gulped some air before plopping down on the nearest chair. He sent a pleading look at the both of them, and Gregson sighed.

"I suggest that we accompany him to the morgue to settle his fears. Even so, Lestrade, you must be seeing things. There is no way a dead woman could have walked out by herself just like that. Besides, when was the last time you slept?"

Lestrade's face coloured ever so slightly at the taunt.

"You will believe it when you come with me," he insisted, getting up, purpose stopping the tremors.

"Fine," Gregson said skeptically. Watson wasn't really given a choice as he soon found himself sitting between two of the Inspectors, long-time rivals which he had met thanks to Holmes.

They alighted at the morgue where a man dressed in a labcoat came rushing out, his glasses askew.

"What is it, Landsteiner?" Lestrade asked.

"The woman," he began faintly, "The woman is back. The corpse is there as if it had never been touched."

"What?"

Watson could have sworn that Lestrade's jaw touched the ground when he uttered that single word and sunk down with a shocked look on his face before getting up on wobbly legs and running into the autopsy room. Sure enough, it lay there, pristine as corpses ever get, no semblance of mischief in its unyielding form.

Gregson snorted.

"This insomnia fever is probably causing hallucinations in the entire team," he tried before Dr. Landsteiner turned to him with a death glare.

"I saw it missing, all the workers can lay claim to the fact that they saw the corpse missing and unless you want to charge us with mass hallucination, which I assure you isn't possible."

Watson would have to admit that he was impressed at how he shut Gregson down and actually made him believe in the fact that the corpse had indeed disappeared and reappeared. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, looking put off at being proved wrong.

"Maybe someone is causing mischief," he grumbled as he followed the rest to the table, "A really sick kind of joke."

"Sure, and someone found it hilarious to move Holmes's violin around as well," Watson spoke under his breath, frowning at the sudden inflow of information.

Gregson's "What?" and Lestrade's "Wow, it has returned then?" sounded at the same time. Watson shrugged and turned to face them.

"I saw a shadow last night, sneaking into Holmes's room. When I entered the room, which was heavy with fog for some reason, the violin case was lying open on the floor, violin missing. I assure both of you, it wasn't there in the room. However when I returned from the morning's excursion, it was there, as if it had never been taken away. It appears that the same thing has happened here, however, it takes more work to move a body than a wooden instrument."

The Inspectors exchanged a look. Lestrade believed it easily, as it laid credence to his story, and Gregson continued to look skeptic. Dr. Landsteiner who had overheard this exchange came up, and looked at Watson as if seeing him for the first time. His surprise could be excused due to the strange nature of the circumstances concerned.

He pushed his glasses up as if to scrutinize him properly and Watson oddly felt as if he was on the table instead of the woman.

"Would you happen to be the celebrated Dr. Watson, friend of the illustrious missing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Considering his words, his tone was rather flat, and his hawklike gaze reminded him uncomfortably of Holmes when it was nothing like him. Something was totally wrong, it felt like he was viewed as a particularly delicious treat on a platter. He was frozen, and all he could see were red eyes before the paralysis lifted. He blinked and found himself staring at the perfectly normal black irises of the man in front of him. His disheveled black hair fell to his shoulders, which looked slightly blurred for some reason. The man himself was lanky and towered over the rest of them. However he looked strangely flushed, like someone had decided to inject some colour into his otherwise deathly pale complexion.

"The one and only," Watson answered in a dry voice.

"Ah, it's a pleasure to meet you. I assume you will be a regular in these sudden murders?"

An unsettling smile had settled on the man's face and despite all his years of military experience, Watson found himself taking a step back. It was nothing like the utter terror he had felt at the Baskerville estate, but it wasn't something very nice either.

"Yes."

The smile widened before disappearing. Gregson cleared his throat and Watson jumped. He had almost forgotten about the presence of him and Lestrade.

"I suppose if there is nothing else to be discovered here, then might I suggest that Dr. Watson accompany me?"

"Doctor?" Lestrade's enquiring voice attracted his attention to his figure by the corpse. The fog had thickened in the room, which made Dr. Landsteiner stiffen and lick his dry lips.

"Is this corpse supposed to look like it has undergone a blood transfusion? Because it is suddenly looking very healthy to me."

"Huh?"

They went to stand by the man's side, and indeed, the body was looking flushed and the broken skin seemed to have repaired by itself. It might as well have been alive, had it been breathing.

"Curiouser and curioser," Landsteiner murmured, bending over it with a frown. The body seemed to spasm, before it went back to what it was. Watson frowned but dismissed it as a trick of light. He felt slightly light-headed, but he supposed that he owed it to not have gone without sleep for so long. Distractedly he looked at the bandaged right index finger of the man, which looked like someone had cut off half of.

The fog had thickened too fast and too much. A thick layer of cover covered them to the waists, hiding the ground. It felt strange, like it was something done deliberately. But who could and would deliberately thicken fog? It was too stupid of a thought, Holmes would have laughed. There was nothing called supernatural, now was there?


	6. SCUFFLE IN THE ALLEY

He accompanied Gregson to the site of murder, which happened to in another secluded house in Serpentine Avenue. He cast a nostalgic glance around, remembering how he and Holmes had come here to retrieve the photograph from Irene Adler. It felt like a sick joke that the sites of some of their most memorable cases in London served as the places for these unfortunate happenings. The thick fog seemed to follow them around. Lestrade had stayed back to continue further investigations from his front.

Watson went in, feeling bile creep up at the back of his throat at the scene. It seemed that there had been more of a struggle, as some specks of crimson decorated the floor, and there were some marks on the body, and the clothes had been ripped and bloodied in some places. However, none of the wounds seemed fatal. They were incredibly shallow, enough to sting and draw blood, but none to kill.

A lone finger was clutched in the right hand of the body while another gripped a knife. It was another female in her late twenties, her eyes open in terror and mouth in shock.

"Looks like she was a fighter, not bad," One of the officers murmured appreciatively.

"This is the most amount of evidence we have ever found of the murderer," Gregson began enthusiastically, trying to desperately look on the bright side of things, "If we can perform a proper test, then we can catch them fast."

"But how do you even expect to perform tests on every single person in a conceivable radius? Is there even a suspect pool?"

Watson's skeptic words seemed to make the man deflate and he sighed.

There wasn't much to see and he made his way back to Baker Street. Night was falling, dark streaking its way across the grey sky, the fog thickening as the cold seemed to increase which made him pull the overcoat tighter around himself, shivering slightly. The cab driver looked slightly put off as he kept muttering about ridiculous inconveniences. The horses looked paranoid as well, evidenced by the nervous shaking of their heads when the cab alighted at 221B Baker Street.

The cab drove away.

Watson rubbed his weary face, letting out a defeated sigh. He turned to enter the apartment, but a shadow caught his attention. It didn't belong to anyone, it seemed like a lone figure in relatively empty streets. It paused, as if sensing that he was looking at it and then skittered away, way too fast to be considered normal.

Abandoning all thoughts of partaking in Mrs. Hudson's delicious dinner, he patted his pocket where he kept his pistol. He had taken to carrying it about, as a safety precaution. After checking that it was present, he slipped a hand into it and followed the retreating shadow at the bend. It led him into the deserted alley by the side of his building, which was too foggy.

He paused, frowning, having lost sight of the shadow. The place was quiet, an oppressed silence, as if wailing voices had been deliberately muffled to nil. Feeling slightly foolish for having followed a shadow, he turned to return, before a whisper at his neck made him jump a feet and take out his gun.

"Have you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat, Doctor?"

Impulsively, he cocked the gun at the disembodied voice, but found no one. He spun around, looking for the speaker, feeling dread pool in his stomach the longer he took to locate the source. A sudden movement at his right side caught his attention, but it was too fast for him to react properly.

Horrified, he could only stand limply as claws dug lightly into his right arm and a set of pointed canines made its appearance at the side of his neck. The index finger of the attacker's hand was damaged.

"GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF WATSON!!!!!!!!"

He was thrown forward, the claws and teeth disappeared and he fell to his knees, gasping from the near death experience. He turned to look at a tall silhouette shielding him from what seemed like a figure rapidly dissolving into mist. Some of the fog shifted out of the alley, which was now quiet except for his ragged breathing.

He nearly couldn't believe his eyes when the figure spun around and a streak of moonlight made the gaunt face and hawklike nose visible. The voice had sounded familiar but this just confirmed it. The edges were blurred slightly, but he had seen enough to recognize his friend.

"Holmes?" He called out faintly, feeling the world go slightly out of axis as he uttered the name, a strange nostalgia gripping his tongue.

"Yes....," his voice was hesitant and the world went blurry, before a well-recognized baritone cut through the haze.

"Watson, Watson, breathe."

He did as was told but still felt slightly dazed. A lingering after-effect of the fog as he discovered later.

"I think it would be prudent to return to the flat, where I can answer your queries and possibly take a slight cover from prying eyes.

He found himself being hoisted up, and dragged to his own place. He ought to be offended at that, but at the moment he could only marvel at the reappearance of his friend who miraculously seemed to be completely unharmed.

Mrs. Hudson was sleeping, which was odd, for she tended to stay awake to wait for Watson to come back. Besides, it was too early to even go to bed, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the earlier scuffle in the alley. His head was feeling slightly clear, and he vaguely remembered how the attacker had seemed to melt right out of mist.

Holmes sat down on one of the armchairs and Watson occupied the couch opposite to him. In the light that the candles gave off, he could see the noticeable changes in him. Holmes was normally pale, but now he looked deathly white with a strange flush. Watson remembered the scars lining his arms and the discoloured thin fingers, but the skin looked strangely pristine. His gaze took him back to his face and he noted how his eyes seemed to gleam slightly red.

"What happened?" he asked. It was a simple enough enquiry, but the complicated answer that he received from Mr. Sherlock Holmes that night in the cold rooms of 221B Baker Street shocked him beyond everything.


	7. THE CURIOUS NARRATIVE OF ONE MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES

**_ The curious narrative of one Sherlock Holmes _ **

_I am sure that you have heard from Mr. Vatler about the last case I took upon before my presumed and famous disappearance. My dear Watson, I am afraid that I hadn't revealed the full extent of my investigative work to you before. It is a rather awful betrayal of trust, I suppose, but I hope you will forgive me._

_Mycroft had contacted me earlier, two months ago before the Sussex case in fact, reporting of similar kinds of victims. Now, as I have said before, he is basically the British Government. He had access to the going-ons in the entire country, atleast the official records anyways. He gave me a few cold cases for reference. I couldn't believe that I had missed including them in my extensive history of crime, but that's that. Victims like this have popped all over history, and ancient sources have described the killers as "Pale with bloodsucking canines and deadly claws which fade into mist." All over history, people have been shown to be afraid of such creatures, sending whispered warnings all around._

_Now what was it that William Shakespeare had said in his famous play, "Julius Caesar"?_

_"Yond Cassius over there has a lean and hungry look  
He thinks too much, such men are dangerous."_

_Well, he might as well be wary of me, anyways._

_I had gathered data from dubious sources, dubious to the general public anyways. They spoke of people striking from thick mists and leaving behind such dead bodies in their wake. I have extended the network of the Baker Street Irregulars into the entire country, with Mycroft's help. However I shall not bore you with the details._

_When I received the case from Mr. Vatler, I already had a strange sort of working hypothesis. The officials would laugh at me if I said this, for I had no proof and lack of evidence to the contrary doesn't prove my point either. It is a faulty way of thinking, and it doesn't gather much credence in my precise thinking methods._

_However as implausible and absurd my theory was, my intuition said that I was heading in the right direction. As I have said before, when you eliminate the impossible, all that's left is the truth, however improbable. Curiously enough, Mycroft happened to take my words seriously._

_Considering that he is better than me in constructing theories, I took this shot in the dark for the time being._

_Tell me now, good Watson, you have heard of vampires right?_

_Pale bloodsuckers who resemble humans, armed with fangs and an ability to collapse into mist?_

_We all believed they were nuances of fantasy, crafted mythical creatures based on imagination. However, to my rather expected shock, I discovered that they existed pretty well in flesh, and were simply another previously undiscovered link in the food chain. Undiscovered in respect to humans._

_A vampire jumped at me out of nowhere, giving me no opportunity to react. I struggled, but found it to be in vain as I felt strength ebbing from my veins along with the blood. I had been in near death situations many times, especially the close brush with Professor Moriarty a few years ago._

_However, this time I was powerless, in the clutches of an unimaginably powerful creature. Helpless to struggle in the face of certain death. As I felt my consciousness completely leave, a voice sounded, oddly distorted, as if someone was speaking through an incredibly strong wind._

_It said, "Don't worry, you will wake up hungry."_

_In my utter delirious state, I hadn't paid much attention to it, but after waking up from what felt like a coma after approximately fourteen or so hours, I realised what it meant. I was delirious, with hunger this time as I dug myself out of wherever I had been buried, a bush if I recall correctly, however said hunger may or may not have affected my judgement which I am sorry for._

_To my incredibly good luck, the person I happened to find wasn't a human, but instead a vampire, not the one which had targeted me, however. He took pity on me, and I must have been looking piteous enough to attract such sympathy. Atleast I have retained my coat, which I found to my delight could shift into mist along with me, sparing me the trouble of seeking pairs of clothes to preserve modesty after shifting back._

_The thing is, as you might have guessed by now, which is kind of obvious, I am a vampire. I got turned into one by extremely unfortunate circumstances and there is not reversal of said circumstances so I am stuck in this form for as long as I live, as a vampire. Which would probably be outliving human lifespans by atleast a century, a really sobering and upsetting thought._

_For the record, not all vampires drink human blood. Technically the requirement is blood, from any possible creature. Though, one of them have started on how delicious human blood is, though most find it distasteful as they have been converted from humans, and even if their species might have changed, preying on humans still counted as a form of cannibalism._

_I tracked the vampire who was stirring up trouble and using his vampiric abilities to cause unwarranted chaos and murder. Some of them happened due to personal grudges, some simply for fun. I suppose I cannot blame him, for he regards humans as an exotic delicacy, a forbidden fruit. Drinking human blood is technically forbidden, unless under pressing circumstances. So basically he was breaking the vampire law and I ended up being assigned to bring him down._

_I have been following you ever since I got word of him being spotted in London. It was to watch over you, for I have been worried as you tended to follow my rather unhealthy habit of not sleeping. I hope that you will forgive the sudden scare I gave with the violin. You sincerely needed sleep._

_I realised that he was likely to target you after me and after keeping watch over you for a few days, sure enough, you led me straight to him. His bloodlust was palpable when he spotted you, disgusting in fact—_

_Even if I hadn't been assigned for this case, I will make him pay for even attempting to kill you. He would have sucked you dry and then cut your head off. An efficient way to prevent vampiric transformation._

_And_

_For who it is, I believe that you have an obvious suspicion, don't you?_

_Yes, you are right._

_It is the forensic scientist, Dr. Landsteiner._

_He is killing off humans for fun._

"Holmes, you scared me."

"I know," the detective mumbled, looking at the floor, seemingly interested in examining the floorboards for the millionth time. He felt thin but firm arms around him and Watson's voice near his ear,

"Please DO tell me before Mrs. Hudson and I die of worry and Scotland Yard dies of overwork."

The old laughter of Sherlock Holmes echoed in the rooms of 221B Baker Street once again.


	8. EPILOGUE

The detectives of Scotland Yard were shocked but happy and Mycroft paid them an explanation to keep them from asking too many questions. They managed to capture Dr. Landsteiner in a scenario involving Gregson and Lestrade draping him in silver. Needless to say, the allergic reaction was enough to lead to anaphylaxis which led to death when Watson "casually" dropped a garlic garland on him.

The Yard were sorry to lose such a fine forensic scientist, however, a murderer was a murderer. The secret of the vampires wasn't outted, and the case was wrapped up as concisely as possible.

Holmes had claimed that he would end up with a cut off head if the entire world learnt of vampires, and the police just shut up, too happy to have their "ace in the hole" and "last resort" back. The number of unsolved crimes in London and England sharply dropped to a near zero. Holmes was happy enough to have a huge amount of cases on hand, even if most of them were minor.

He did miss working on actual cases, instead of random chases for a rogue vampire.

He was, however, hired by the Vampire Commission as a permanent detective, much to his displeasure.

If anyone had assumed that cool new super powers had lifted the workload, then they are mistaken.

The excessive troubles of one unofficial consulting detective of the human world and one official fulltime vampire detective had just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first officially complete story. It needs a bit of editing, but otherwise it is complete. I literally pulled off an all nighter to write the final 4k words, welp--
> 
> This story originally came to be in a conversation between a friend and me. We were joking about vampires and Sherlock Holmes and this was born. If the mood strikes, I plan to write sequels of this vampire Holmes saga.
> 
> (For the weebs out there, please note that I didn't mean for this to sound as a really weird combo of Sherlock Holmes, Yu Yu Hakusho and Tokyo Ghoul. I never finished either of them, but well--)
> 
> To all those who have read till here, thank you for your patience and consideration for reading this story. I am really grateful.
> 
> Yours magically,  
> The_Grim_Reaper_Of_UA


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